


in vino veritas

by kakashihatake123



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drunkenness, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-08 02:57:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11637486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakashihatake123/pseuds/kakashihatake123
Summary: Sansa had cared not of the wetness of his tunic or the stench of sweat and horses that clung to him, only for his lips, which found hers easily in the darkness. His tongue had curled against hers, open mouthed and longing, and her skin was like fire on his. But he had moved back, suddenly very aware that this was Sansa. This was Robb’s little sister Sansa, the girl who had grown up as his little sister- no matter the truth now.“I…” he had begun, opening his mouth to speak, all the while knowing he knew nothing. “Forgive me.” He had turned on his heel and strode from the room, leaving her at his back and he had been too much of a coward to even turn and meet her eye, afraid of what he might find there.But now she stood before him, brave and bare and breathless.





	in vino veritas

**Author's Note:**

> written for _[sardoniyx](http://sardoniyx.tumblr.com/)_ as part of the _[jonsaexchange](http://jonsaexchange.tumblr.com/)_ <3

_in vino veritas_

“I didn’t know.” he whispered. His tongue dragged across his bottom lip, his hands tightened around the arms of his chair until his knuckles marbled white. His goblet was empty, a regretful sin, but as he watched her he could not help but feel suddenly drunk nevertheless.

Sansa looked back at him, her expression never having been so resolute.

The ornamental pins that had once held back her hair glimmered in the firelight, her loose hair spilling across her shoulders, red as fire in the deepening night.

The canvas of the tent lapped at the wind and rustled in the darkness, the low murmur of what few guards remained awake carrying through. He could see the fires from their camps casting the tent in golden light, the whistle of wind loud as the blood that rushed in his ears.

Jon had watched as she entered, silent and still. His hand had fallen to the knife on his table, pulled from its sheathe in a sudden and deliberate moment but in spite of the blade at her neck Sansa had barely flinched, standing in the midst of the tent as though it had been raised around her.

He had opened his mouth to enquire about her sudden appearance but found it had gone dry at the sight of her. She was clad in nothing more than a chemise and cloak and the lining of her lips had been stained a shade of deep cerise from the Dornish wine that sweetened her breath.

She reached for the brooch that held together the lapels of her cloak, the furs sloughing from her back and to the floor. Even at his age Jon felt suddenly like a green boy, his jaw slack as he watched her fingers rise, twist, work at the buttons that held together her shift until the fabric unspooled from around her.

She was bared for him to see, her movements rapturous as she stepped toward him, the dryness of Jon’s lips growing indubitably at the slight. The swell of each breast was slight but faultless, heaving with her pitch of her uneven breath.

His fingers trembled, reaching toward her. Jon swallowed the lump in his throat, “I didn’t know.” His hand lifted to her body, the skin beneath his fingers smooth as they spread over her belly, the thumb that ran across her hip making a shiver ripple through her. “I was a fool.”

Sansa sunk into him against the chair and drew him closer. He shifted slightly, hoping to disguise the gathering tightness at the laces of his breeches, but the friction of her hips against his as he moved fared only to worsen his predicament. A soft, strained gasp was pulled from his lips and she could feel the hot breath against her collarbones.

His lips brushed across her column of he neck and as she spoke he could feel the words reverberate through her body. “We were both fools.”

Sansa remembered the night Jon had appeared in the midst of her tent, dripping of rain and stinking of wine, having returned from a visit to the queen in King’s Landing, no doubt to inform her of the lessening hostilities in the North since the wedding of their King to a proper Northern Lady.

Sansa had gotten word that during Jon’s visit there had been a small attack launched by men from the Westerlands, still angered over the deposing of their former Lannisters. An arrow had struck Jon, the letter read, the words striking Sansa like her own blow. It had pierced the soft chink of armour beneath his arm and the pain was absolute and engulfing, worse yet when Tormund had snapped the wooden shaft and pulled the metal tip from his skin. The Maester had commented that the arrow had been so close to his chest that with a difference of a few inches Jon would be among the dead on the hallowed ground of battle.

As he journeyed back to Sansa’s encampment on the Kingsroad Jon had been consumed by thoughts of the Lady of Winterfell. He remembered when he had departed the camp, pressing his lips to her cheek lightly in a chaste farewell kiss, feeling the eyes of the Small Court on their backs. The scent of her skin was intoxicating, the softness of her cheek like velvet beneath his touch. She had given a turn so slight that it was nearly imperceptible, the corner of her mouth against his own, sweet and soft and gone all too soon.

She had pressed a cloth into his hand, a token- a gift of luck, and when he had returned to the camp Jon had kept a tight hold to the rain dotted fabric. He had released it only when he had strode toward her and kissed her full and well, as he had ached to for so long.

Sansa had cared not of the wetness of his tunic or the stench of sweat and horses that clung to him, only for his lips, which found hers easily in the darkness. His tongue had curled against hers, open mouthed and longing, and her skin was like fire on his.

But he had moved back, suddenly very aware that this was Sansa. This was Robb’s little sister Sansa, the girl who had grown up as _his_ little sister- no matter the truth now.

“I…” he had begun, opening his mouth to speak, all the while knowing he knew nothing. “Forgive me.” He had turned on his heel and strode from the room, too much of a coward to turn and meet her eye, afraid of what he might find there.

But now she stood before him, brave and bare and breathless.

His fingers brushed across her bare skin, warm as a snap of Southron wind, and she bit gently at his bottom lip, a choked gasp escaping him before he could bite it back. He could nearly hear the blood rushed passed his ears, surprising him as he had thought that all the blood in his body had moved south.

He pulled her against him, gripping her arse tightly in his palms, her mouth against his open and lustful. Her hair was like silk as it brushed his skin, his fingers pathetically quick as he undid the laces of his tunic, leaving nothing between them but warm, bare skin. Her breasts were smooth against his chest, her fingers teasing softly at the dark hair smattered across his chest, and her tongue ran across his lips.

His palms skated across her bare back, feeling the soft dip of her waist give way to the growing curve of her hips, his mouth aching to follow the path his fingers had taken. Jon rose to his feet, his breeches so painfully tight that he could no longer sit. Holding her to him he felt Sansa follow his lead, her fingers pushing his breeches low over his hips so he could kick them off.

“Gods.” he breathed, his voice gritty and rough. He felt lightheaded enough to see stars before his eyes, so intoxicated by the woman in his arms that he could barely speak.

In the darkness they clumsily found the bed, Sansa laid across the furs bare and rippling with goose pimples. Jon’s beard was rough as his face nestled in the hollow cavern between her breasts, his tongue swirling lazily around each nipple in turn before moving down her belly.

He paused to meet he eye, finding her mouth puckered and pink from the roughness of their kiss. “Sansa,” he whispered, a question in his voice.

She bobbed her head in a nod, “Jon.” The way her breath hitched when she said his name made him feel as though he had grown ten feet. His tongue resumed its exploration, circling the divot in her belly and finding the exposed bone of her hip. He could feel her shiver in response, her stomach trembling beneath his touch, and with one last questioning look he moved lower.

Jon guided her leg forward, her knees parting to allow him entrance, and with a simple movement he could feel her leg loop over his shoulder so that her heel nudged gently at his back. “Jon.” she said, light as a sigh, her back arching high off the bed.

Beneath the patch of short auburn curls she was as sweet and soft as he had imagined, wet and pink and just for him. “Jon.” she repeated, the lilt of her voice not unpleasant. He was so hard he felt as though he would burst without even a single touch, thinking he could not grow any stiffer. He was proven wrong a moment later when Sansa met her peak and moaned, surely loud enough to be heard by the knights outside the tent, her hips lifting to meet his lips harder, her heel bouncing against his back, the fingers entwined with his holding tight.

As he lay atop her he could feel the wetness left behind, slick against his cock as his hips twitched against hers. He let out a stiff groan as she wrapped her arms around him, the free hand he used to prop himself up pulled away until she could feel the brunt of her weight against him. In another life it might have been uncomfortable but now she only craved the closeness, the shiver of his spine, the tremble of his shoulders as he had lifted himself. Her lips found his again in the darkness, caring little for the taste she had left, letting out a choked gasp as he pushed into her.

He let out a loud curse before he could stop himself, feeling the tightness of her body pulsating against his. Jon could not think straight, could not even form the words to speak. His mind was a brew of thoughts, from the way the smell of her unbraided hair filled his nose to the way she let out little a soft whimper each time their hips met and lifted up off the bed.

Wrapped in her heat and feeling the shallow thrusts his hips involuntarily made Jon knew he would not last long. He might have blushed and uttered an apology had she not reached out to brush her fingers affectionately across his cheek, perhaps the most tender and intimate touch of the night.

Before he could speak his name was on her lips again, her mouth parted against the shell of his ear, whispering hurriedly. He could feel her clench tightly around him as she met her peak, undulating like a wave between his body and the furs, nearly pulsating with the energy of her orgasm. The way she had said his name…it would be nearly impossible to last even a moment longer.

Her nails bit into his shoulders hard enough to leave the imprints of half moons behind, holding him tight to her as he rushed headlong into the heady daze of his own orgasm.

Falling onto his back beside her Jon felt Sansa shift, her chest heaving, until he was at a better position to pull her body against his. She curled against him, her head lolling back against his chest, her lips parting just slightly when he leaned down to press a kiss to them. Her fingers curled lazily through his dark curls, sleep guiding her into its embrace so quickly that he could see her eyes half lidded and her breathing slow.

“Sleep now, my love.” he breathed. He tucked a strand of auburn hair behind her offered ear and kissed her brow softly. In the firelight the ring on her finger seemed to be glowing as golden as their naked skin. “Or perhaps I ought to start calling you wife?”

Sansa hummed in response, her eyes batting back fatigue. “Wife.” She repeated, mulling over the words in her mouth. “I must say that is the first time you’ve said that, _husband_.”

He adjusted her weight in his arms, his body quickly succumbing to the same fatigue she displayed. “It seems we shared lots of firsts tonight.” He teased, nuzzling his nose against her cheek, his warm breath making gooseflesh rise on her arms.

It was the longest they had spent in each other’s presence in the two months since they had kneeled before the Heart Tree in Winterfell’s Godswood and repeated the Septon’s words back to him.

They had avoided the bedding ceremony after the celebratory feast; to both of their delight, and when they had retired to the same chamber Jon had taken to the armchair before the fire and Sansa to the bed. She had lain among the piquant furs, though she had gotten little rest that night, listening to the even sound of Jon’s breath and the way the leaves rustled against the chamber window.

Then she could not have imagined lying in Jon’s arms, peppering his jaw with kisses and feeling the dull soreness of her hips after the consummation of their marriage. “Shall we continue this in the morning?” she asked, lazily brushing her fingers across his cheek, watching as his eyes tiredly fluttered closed.

“Of course, love.” Jon smiled, pulling her closer. It would take an army to stop him.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it!
> 
> // originally posted _[here](http://manbunjon.tumblr.com/post/163527463620/sansa-cared-not-for-the-wetness)_


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